


If I Told You This Was Only Gonna Hurt (Would You Walk In?)

by TheMipstaz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Full Shift Werewolves, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:51:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7629283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boyd/Erica/Stiles canon divergent AU where Stiles gets kidnapped by the alphas with them in 3a instead of Cora for <a href="http://jacyevans.tumblr.com/">Jacyevans</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Told You This Was Only Gonna Hurt (Would You Walk In?)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AeGfss2vsZg) new Martin Garrix song (ft. Bebe Rexha) that came out on the 28th.

The first time he really notices Stiles, Boyd is in too much pain to pay much attention. His arms and shoulders ache from being chained above his head for so long; his nose stings with the rancid stench of his and Erica’s fear; his wrists twitch with every volt of electricity that zings through his veins. 

Boyd can barely hear the sharp banter between Stiles and Gerard Argent over the pounding of his own terrified heart. He can barely hear anything over the paralyzing mantra of “I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die” that bounces around his skull. 

But Boyd can definitely hear every bone-crunching, wince-worthy punch that Gerard lands on Stiles. Boyd can definitely see Erica flinching beside him. 

He closes his eyes. 

After it’s all over—after the police storm into the Argents’ house to drag Gerard away in handcuffs, after a screaming ambulance takes the three of them to the Beacon Hills Memorial, after Allison Argent gets off basically scot-free for aiding in the capture of her xenophobic grandfather—Boyd can look back and remember the spark of determination in Stiles’ eyes. 

After that, Boyd tries to notice him more. When he and Erica get cleared to leave a few weeks before Stiles thanks to their rejuvenated werewolf healing abilities, Boyd makes sure to look over his shoulder at the boy who saved their lives. 

The first time Erica notices Stiles is in the abandoned bank vault. She feels like she should’ve known the justice system sentencing Gerard 30 years for a hate crime against werewolves was too easy. Nothing in her life has ever been taken care of in one fell swoop. Well, except maybe her epilepsy with the Bite. But sharp claws, a fiery temper, and a world that pretends not to hate werewolves immediately replaces her illness. So really, everything evens out, in her opinion. She’s still in the same shitty place as she was before, just with a new angle. 

The only plus is this time she has Boyd—her best friend, her rock, her first love. 

And then, with radical hunters out of the way, it’s only natural that a pack full of bloodthirsty, batshit crazy alphas come to take their place as the local threat. Why the fuck not? It’s Beacon Hills. 

That’s how Erica finds herself stuck in a dark, dank, hecatolite cell feeling like she’s about to lose her mind. 

It starts subtly enough, with an annoying buzzing at the back of her head. At first, she thinks it’s the beginning of a headache and ignores it. Then, it develops into a teeth-gritting migraine centered just behind her eyes. She can feel it growing and squashing her brain against the sides of her skull. 

“I didn’t even know werewolves could get headaches,” she complains irritably, voice too loud on her delicate ears. She squeezes her eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. It reminds her of the transition period after receiving the Bite, the few days of agony as her very atoms transformed. 

Stiles’ head pops up from where he’s slumped against a wall. “Werewolves don’t get headaches.” His eyes narrow calculatingly, head tilting. 

“Tell that to my fucking headache,” Erica snaps back, knowing she’s being waspish but not caring. 

“You too?” Stiles looks to Boyd, who nods with pursed lips. Stiles looks troubled, but hunkers back down and doesn’t say anything else. 

Erica doesn’t know how much time has passed by the time she starts losing control of her shift. It doesn’t help that she doesn’t know how many times per day the alphas are feeding them. Sometimes the door swings open—never disturbing the secure mountain ash lining the walls that Stiles hasn’t bothered to touch because what would that accomplish besides making the alphas angry?—and Erica can turn her nose up at the proffered food. But other times, she can’t fight the gurgle of her stomach. She feels her mouthful of fangs automatically salivate at the stink of the cold beans and chunky mystery meat on the tray. 

She also has a hard time gauging time because the drone at the back of her head has evolved into a head-splitting roar. Mostly, Erica spends her time alternating between pressing against the cool tile to ease her spinning head and the warmth of Boyd’s chest when the floor’s chill becomes unbearable. Eventually, she gives up and insistently tucks herself under one of his arms. 

Despite their horrific situation, Boyd has to bite back a fond smile. He glances toward Stiles huddled by himself across the way, then back to where Erica rests her cheek on his shirt. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but closes it wordlessly. 

The next time Erica opens her eyes, Stiles had settled down by himself again, but a foot or two closer than before. Awake as well, Boyd watches him intently while Erica burrows into Boyd’s side and wraps her arms around him. He returns the gesture, big hand lying lightly on her hip. He doesn’t know whether it’s to comfort her or himself. 

In the end, Stiles migrates close enough that Boyd can smell how badly he needs a shower and a toothbrush. Well, all three of them do, so maybe that’s not the best example. The point is that Stiles keeps throwing the two of them furtive looks that aren’t furtive enough for anyone to miss at all. He’s pretty sure Erica purposefully avoids Stiles’ eyes, like not seeing him will negate the fact Stiles shivers himself to fitful sleep every time. 

Stiles himself never meets Boyd’s gaze, as if slightly ashamed. But Boyd finds, surprisingly, that he doesn’t mind. What might’ve been awkward in ordinary circumstances has been rendered understandable in the name of survival. Self-preservation makes everyone her bitch. 

Boyd raises the arm that Erica isn’t nestled under, face as open and inviting as he can make it—which is to say, a slightly less pained grimace—in spite of the hunger gnawing at his stomach and the dizzying pounding of his head. Stiles hesitates long enough to gnaw on his bottom lip and then quickly bridges the distance between them. He sighs when Boyd’s arm envelops him, a soft whisper of relief that warms Boyd’s empty gut. 

Boyd closes his eyes, feeling content in a way that he shouldn’t be considering they’re trapped in a dungeon. 

Later, Boyd jolts awake to the sound of snarling and the sensation of an axe splitting his skull in half. Half-blinded by pain, Boyd blinks furiously to clear his hazy vision. What meets his eyes is a wolfed-out, golden-eyed Erica roaring in the face of a terrified, struggling Stiles. He writhes under her, breaths wheezy and erratic and eyes so wide that Boyd can see a ring of white circling his pupils. 

Boyd sways to his feet, groaning as the world spins. He brings a steadying hand to his temple, only to feel the prick of claws against his skin. Everything feels too hot, too heavy. Sweat drips into his eyes. Boyd fights against the way gravity seems to have increased tenfold to drag down his limbs. 

Boyd clumsily lunges at Erica, bowling her over. “Get out of here!” he shouts to Stiles without taking his eyes off of the vicious beta she-wolf thrashing in his grip. Boyd can barely hear Stiles scrambling away over the ringing in his ears as Erica boxes the side of his head. 

Stiles flattens himself against the far wall, cradles the arm Erica slashed up, and watches with his breath caught in his throat. 

While the two wolves wrestle, they seem to be growling something at each other that echoes and reverberates through the vault. Stiles can’t help but lean forward a bit to catch it, brow furrowing. “Stiles,” Erica whispers as she gouges her claws down Boyd’s side. “ _Stiles_ ,” Boyd repeats when he gnashes his teeth. They both snap their gazes around to eerily stare at him. “ _Stiles_ **!** ”

Stiles jerks awake with a strangled shout. 

He thrashes blindly, throat tight and vision blurry with the tears clinging to the corners of his eyes. The sheets grip his limbs like cotton restraints until the sound of ripping fabric cuts through the room. Stiles rolls free and off the bed with a heavy thump. He lays against the floor for a moment, chest heaving, and suddenly notices his cheek is touching smooth wood instead of icy hecatolite. And the room is lighter than it’s supposed to be, streaked yellow from the nightlight in the corner and striped white from where the window curtains aren’t quite closed. 

“…n’t get too near him, Erica,” a familiar voice filters in from up on the mattress Stiles just tumbled off. “The therapist said to let him come to his senses on his own.” 

“I hate seeing him like this,” someone whispers back fiercely. 

“And he hates to see one of us when we have nightmares. People are allowed to have relapses; it’s a natural part of healing.” 

“Boyd?” Stiles croaks, voice hoarse and rough. “Erica?” He slowly sits up, muscles quaking. 

“Oh, thank God.” Erica all but throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

They crash to the ground with a muffled “Oomph!” from Stiles, who abruptly has an armful of light brown wolf. Erica sits in his lap and places a paw on his chest, tail thumping eagerly on the ground. Fur goes flying everywhere, but Boyd just chuckles. He carefully sheathes the claws he’d used to cut Stiles free from the blankets and reaches out a hand to scritch her ear. 

A glass of water and a new change of sheets later, the three of them lie curled together. With Boyd’s thumb rubbing circles against his hip and Erica’s furry snout on his shoulder, Stiles feels a million miles away from the years-old memory of the bank vault. 

The nightmare is an old one, but no less terrifying for it. It might be even more terrifying now because back then, Stiles could never have imagined how much those two would mean to him down the road. 16 year-old Stiles couldn’t know that Scott would team up with Derek and the Sheriff to find the alphas’ lair and rescue them. 16 year-old Stiles couldn’t foresee that Boyd and Erica would sit by his hospital bed every day until he was pronounced fully recovered and released. 16 year-old Stiles couldn’t imagine meeting Boyd’s sugar-sweet mother or Erica’s mischievous twin sisters. 16 year-old Stiles couldn’t appreciate the gentleness hidden behind Boyd’s stony veneer or the vulnerability behind Erica’s wicked sarcasm. 

Stiles is so glad he’s not 16 anymore. 

As he combs soothing fingers through Erica’s silky coat and relishes the softness of Boyd’s night shirt against his skin, Stiles blinks hard against the sleep weighing down his eyelids. Erica snuffles and licks his cheek, lips peeling back in a wolfy grin as Stiles grumbles about drool on the pillow. Boyd reprimandingly flicks Erica on the nose, not even bothering to lift his head. 

Stiles can hear Boyd’s breath evening out and knows it’s now or never before Boyd’s out like a light. “Thanks,” he says quietly into the not-quite-darkness. Stiles takes a deep breath—revelling in how the air smells like the spaghetti they had for dinner and minty toothpaste, not blood and acrid body odor. 

“For what?” mumbles Boyd as Erica perks her head up, nose twitching. 

Stiles stretches out a hand to smooth out an awry tuft of fur. “For waking me up.” _For changing my life._ “And the water.” _And loving me._ “I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.” 

Erica leans into his touch, brown eyes soft. 

Boyd props himself up on his arm and shifts to look at Stiles. He frowns at the sad lilt to Stiles’ tone. “We don’t know what we’d do without you either. Do you want to talk about your nightmare?” 

“It’s nothing you guys haven’t heard before,” evades Stiles, looking away. 

“Well, tell us again,” insists Boyd. Erica woofs in agreement. 

Stiles hesitates, chewing on his bottom lip, but eventually starts. “It was the bank vault again.” 

Erica progressively inches closer and closer until she’s all but flopped onto both of her boys’ chests by the time Stiles has finished. She whines when Stiles recalls Erica attacking him, and Stiles buries a shaking hand in her scruff. 

After Stiles’ voice trails off, Boyd takes a few moments to gather his thoughts. Then he slowly says, “We’ve had our fair share of suffering.” 

“Understatement of the century,” snorts Stiles. Erica huffs her assent. 

“But I would do it all over again in a second,” Boyd continues. 

Stiles shoots him an “are you fucking crazy?” look. 

Boyd loosely takes Stiles’ hand. “Because it brought me to you, brought  _us_ to you.” 

Stiles thanks his lucky stars that it’s too dark for the two of them to see his tomato red face. It’s bad enough as it is that it feels like he could fry an egg on it. “You fucking sap,” he complains in embarrassment. “I can’t believe I used to think you were this badass, silent, brooding dude, when in reality you are a frickin’ marshmallow.  _Our_ marshmallow.” 

Erica chuffs in amusement, squirming around to lick Boyd’s nose and whacking Stiles in the face with her paw in the process. 

Boyd chuckles, Erica furiously wags her tail and lolls her tongue, Stiles makes a face and tries to fish out a wolf hair stuck on his tongue, and the bank vault seems a million miles away. 


End file.
